


Whatever Happens

by MonoclePony



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Gift Fic, M/M, Mild Gore, Violence, character death but not rly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein is a survivor. That's all he can be, in a world where the Living Lost, soulless creatures with a thirst for blood and brains, prowl the ever-bleak landscape of the land he once called home. But being reunited with his long lost boyfriend, a rare type of being that stands between human and Living Lost, known only as a Living Impaired, Jean feels that he has all the strength he needs to succeed in the harsh world.<br/>That is, until they meet the judge, jury and executioner of the Vaccine Movement, and come to realise that their own little world can't go on forever. In fact, it might just be torn apart at the seams...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Happens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3mm4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3mm4/gifts).



> I have never written anything remotely close to a zombie AU forgive me///  
> I kinda wanted to do more with it but I was very aware of my time schedule and what I'd need to achieve so uh yeah  
> I hope you guys enjoy it- it's a completely different genre to what I'm used to, so that made it fun!- and I hope y'all have a great christmas!  
> Especially you, my secret santa! :D It's not exactly fluff and tumbles, but it's a thing and things are good  
> so uh yeah, enjoy!

When the sun went down, the L.Ls came up.

That was something everyone found out fast enough. The moment the sun drew into its grave, red like blood and weeping at the edges, the chorus of clicks would rise up like a rush of cicadas, loud and never-ending. Sometimes, screeches were heard. Other times, people reported the moans of dying animals. Every noise in the night belonged to the L.Ls.

The Living Lost- and that was the nicest of their names.

The first time people heard their noise, they didn’t understand. They didn’t know that those clicks were covering them, bouncing back to the ears of the waiting L.L and telling it that there was a walking buffet heading straight for them. After the first attacks, they got the message. Now the land was empty, barren save for the building roar of clicks and hums from the creatures, and everyone stayed hidden. Anyone who was left outside when the sun went down was as good as lost. The creatures would be on them in minutes, tracking them down through the spasms of panicked muscles and the soaring temperature of a sweating and stressed body. They weren’t like the shambling, stupid wraiths from films and books- L.Ls were predators through and through, and humans their prey. Once the clicking began and the moon became the only light to carve the way, it was the hour to make amends with any god willing to listen.

 But sunset was when the two travellers moved.

The first woke with the stars, eyes flashing open as he remained curled in his sleeping bag. He shifted first, cringing as something prickly tickled his spine through the thick wadding of material, and then let his eyes adjust. Jean Kirschtein felt the weight of another bad night’s sleep on his eyelids, but he couldn’t afford to ignore the urges in the pit of his stomach. He turned his head to one side, seeking out the floor below him, and let out a barely audible grunt at the way his spine cracked into place. It was already dark. He was lucky his bladder had woken him. He would have been more concerned had he not been twenty feet up in the boughs of a sturdy looking redwood tree, but he scolded himself all the same.

He’d had a treehouse, back when the world was normal and he was a kid, so he was used to climbing all sorts of trees. The redwood was a new adventure, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He carefully unzipped the sleeping bag, stretching as he did so, and tried his best not to lose his balance and fall to his death. It would have been a rather unfortunate way to go, given the circumstances. He’d made it this far. Death by tree wasn’t on his agenda.

He wriggled free and snatched for the rucksack hanging on the nearest branch, heavy with food and ammo and little else. Once he had it safe on his back, he started the climb downwards, the sleeping bag dragging behind him like a felled animal. The golden rule of climbing was to never look down, but he couldn’t help the direction his eyes fell. Still nothing.

 _Why wasn’t he here yet?_ _If I’m late, did he wander off without me?_

Even though he knew it highly unlikely, it doubled the speed of Jean’s efforts, so much so that he slipped halfway down and had to hold in a curse as his shin smacked into one of the heftier branches. He landed with a heavy grunt on the forest floor, backing against the tree to cut off a potential line of attack, and started to roll up his sleeping bag, eyes everywhere and nowhere all at once. He wondered if his childhood self would recognise the man who stood before him, twitching at everything, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. He’d been forced to harden like the world around him; all traces of puppy fat were gone, and in their place lay caverns and edges. Prominent cheekbones, tapered jaw, thin lips- Jean might have even appeared handsome if the world were different. But now he was a survivor, and a survivor had to roll up a sleeping bag without losing his temper.

“C’mon, you piece of shit,” Jean hissed, giving up on the rolling idea and stuffing it into his rucksack instead. “Fucking useless, why did I even bother snatching it from that-”

A twig snapped.

Jean’s head shot up. It was still early for the L.Ls to be truly active, but there were some sly fuckers who got up early. His hands fumbled for the gun he know he had stashed somewhere in the rucksack. Shit, where was it? There was a rustling in the undergrowth, closer now, like an animal picking its way through the thicket. Jean knew better. Animals abandoned this forest years ago. There weren’t even any birds left.

He found the gun and brought it up, palms already sticky and traitorous heart drumming against his ribs. He hated how quickly his body betrayed him. He tried to shut down the fear in his mind, cordon it off to an area he couldn’t reach, but it still came back at him. It made the screams come back. Jean gritted his teeth. _Remember to breathe. Breathe. If you panic, they can smell it._ He flicked off the safety catch, his instincts screaming at him to run but his hands perfectly steady. He had shot them before- never well, but enough to slow them down. He could do it again. Might even be able to find something useful on them, if they were turned recently.

 _Breathe_ , he reminded himself. _Breathe. Inhale on the trigger, exhale on the squeeze_ …

“Songbird!”

Jean exhaled. The safeword. No need for a wasted bullet. The gun slipped from his fingers the same time the second man emerged, stepping lightly over a deadened tree root. Jean let the rarest smile cross his face. Marco. The name that had once bruised his throbbing heart now soothed it. It was a strange transition- then again, it wasn’t every day your fledgling romance was given another shot. Especially not when one half of the romance was killed in a hit and run.

Marco didn’t look a day over eighteen, the age he’d been when he died, but that was two years on and the world was a different place. Still, he stayed the same- button-nosed, wide-eyed and ears that needed a bit more growing into. It was a shame that Jean would never see the finished product, but he was more than happy with what he had. Marco had his eyes and his hair and his freckles- and most importantly, he was _here._ That was enough for Jean.

Marco blinked slowly, steadily, like he had to truly think about it, and he stopped to regard Jean with what appeared to be alarm. Then Jean realised. The gun. Marco hadn’t known he had one. He stepped closer, hand immediately flying out to steady Marco as he swayed in place. “Woah there, steady,” he said. Marco grimaced, and nodded. Jean let his hand linger. There didn’t need to be words between them- Marco found words hard, lately- and Jean’s smile seemed to be enough to convince the other that all was well. Once he was sure, Jean gave him a little push. “You gave me a heart attack,” he said in way of greeting.

Marco bit his lip, such a human reaction, and looked up. Jean was struck again by how faded his eyes seemed to be. More milk added to the coffee of his eyes made eye contact a little unnerving at first, but now it scarcely noticed. The twitch to his shoulders suggested that he’d tried out a shrug and wasn’t altogether successful.  “M’sorry,” he said, the same warm tone Jean loved. “I was scouting. Don’ like to bother you when you’re sleeping.” One hand came up to trace Jean’s right cheekbone, and he winced. Not at the cold of Marco’s skin. Not at the fact that a dead man was touching him. It was because that ‘dead man’ had noticed.

Sure enough, Marco’s brows drew together. “You’re bleeding,” he stated.

“I was bleeding,” Jean corrected, though he kept his sheepish gaze to the floor. “It’s no big deal, I got scratched by a branch. It’s fine now.”

Marco’s frown increased. His thumb skimmed the tail of the cut gently enough to make Jean shiver. The hand came away. “Am I cold?”

“No. I mean, yes, you are, but…” Jean took his hand and pulled it back, closing his eyes and turning his face into the curve of Marco’s palm. “It was a nice shiver.”

“Nice shiver,” Marco repeated. Jean heaved out a sigh, and heard Marco do the same. “You need to be… careful…”

“I know,” Jean sighed. “But I got a big lug like you taking care of me, how careful can I get?”

Marco didn’t grin. He simply leaned in close and pressed icicle lips to Jean’s forehead. A thrill ran through him. “I missed you,” Marco replied simply.

Jean chuckled, butting their heads together as tenderly as he dared. “I was sleeping.”

“I don’t sleep anymore.”

“I know. Doesn’t that suck?”

Marco exhaled slowly. “More than ever.”

Jean gave him a sympathetic pat and swung the rucksack onto his back. “Ah well. You never were a morning person,” he said as they set off at a walk.

Living Impaired. That’s what camp Marco fell into. Not quite L.L and not quite human, Marco Bodt was one of the poor souls stuck in the middle. It had been two years, two hellish years, and Jean knew that despite it all Marco sometimes forgot what he now was. He would laugh and smile and joke on his good days, and would reminisce about what it was like before the infection. The memories of snatched kisses under blankets and tender whispers in dark corridors were fuzzy now, like a television that wasn’t quite tuned in, but Marco could remember the warmth in his chest and the giddiness in his laugh. Jean could tell by the way he looked at him that he hoped it could happen again someday. But then he would slur a word, lose his balance, or pick out a deer in the pitch, and the reality hit home. He wasn’t like Jean. That fact tore Marco up inside, and Jean knew it. So he kept him talking- as best he could, at least.

“Did you find anything? On your scouting trip?”

Another slow blink. “Oh, uh… there’s a horde up ahead. They’re bloating though, so we’re safe to slip by.”

Jean cringed. He learnt not to feel sorry for whoever the bastards tracked down- their sacrifice ensured his survival- but it was still bizarre how cold he felt to it. Bloating meant that the L.Ls had overeaten. A full L.L was a harmless L.L. “Okay. Where we talking?”

“Up ahead.” Marco inclined his head in front of them. “We should skirt to the perimeter. Might be our only chance to get out in the open and get to that old ranger cabin.”

“It’s _my_ only chance, you mean.”

Marco scowled at him. “I’m not leaving you.” The words were so stark on his lips, so honest that they gave Jean whiplash.

He grinned. “Good. If you do I’ll kick your ass.”

“Noted.”

They kept low as Marco suggested, ducking through the undergrowth as quickly as they dared without rousing attention. Marco snapped far more twigs than Jean did, but his apologetic looks were waved away. Didn’t matter. Had to keep moving. They didn’t speak, but Jean could see that Marco remained on edge. He was looking everywhere, waiting for something to come tearing through the trees right at them, and as Jean drew near a hand blocked him from going any further. Jean opened his mouth to question him, but then he saw it.

An L.L was right in front of them.

Jean froze. He couldn’t even determine what it had been when it was human. It barely mattered now; all he knew was that it was a monster. He couldn’t see its eyes- perhaps they had gone to rot like so much of the L.L’s body- but he still had the prickling feeling of being watched. Its ragged gasps inflated the bulbous lungs that hung from its ribs, shivering and covered in mucus, and it sent clicks out as it stood there, head cocked like a spaniel. Jean nearly gagged. Marco slowly stepped in front of him, shielding him from view however feeble that attempt would be, and the L.L’s head snapped to attention at the movement. Its entire body pointed at them like a hound scenting a fox, the rattle of its breath increasing as it took a step forward. Jean’s hand flew to his gun, then hesitated. A sound like that would alert every creature in the forest to their spot.

Marco lowered his head to glare at the creature, a snarl curling his lips. The L.L clicked again, lips curling back to show its bloodied and missing teeth in a Joker-like smile. Marco actually _growled_ , the noise feral and strange to Jean’s ears, and then clicked back. It was louder than the L.L’s, and deeper too. The creature backed off, head snaking as low to the ground as its swollen body would allow, but its hands still snatched at the air like it was trying to hold something. Marco clicked again, and the L.L shrank back.

Click. Shuffle. Click. Shuffle. Click shuffle click shuffle click click shuffle shuffle.

Once the L.L retreated, still clicking, back into the foliage Marco relaxed. The tautness disappeared from his shoulders, and when he turned to look at Jean his eyes were large, waiting. Jean smiled, and reached up to press a small kiss to his cheek. “Thanks,” he breathed.

Marco ducked his head between his shoulders with a shy twitch and moved on. “You’re lucky that one lost its eyes. I wouldn’t have convinced one of the others.”

“Lucky that the poor bastard can’t see, then.”

Despite the joke, Jean was still on edge. He could hear the creature clicking away in the background, the promise of being eaten still rather sharp in his mind, and he pushed onwards a little more rushed than before. Marco sought his hand in the gloom, and Jean didn’t hesitate in taking it. The fingers soon warmed under the attention of his own, if only in a clammy mockery of true body heat, and Jean didn’t miss the way Marco’s mouth twitched into a smile at the feeling.

He wished they didn’t reach the edge of the forest too soon, but fate had a way of fucking him over. They hadn’t even been walking half an hour and there it was. The clearing. The end of the forest. Jean swallowed spittle that wasn’t there as he looked out at the virgin snow, planning their next move. If they just moved out there, who was to say that there weren’t L.Ls lying in wait for them? There was no point in sneaking either; the moonlight would light them up like a homing beacon, dark shapes bright against the white snow, and often that was enough to prompt an attack. L.Ls weren’t smart. They didn’t care if they were leaping at friend or foe. They just attacked for the sake of it. He shifted his weight and felt the cold metal pressing against his thigh. Not enough bullets to get them a clear range if the bastards did turn up. He looked to Marco. He wasn’t going to let him provide a distraction, either. The only real thing to do was-

“Go for it?” Marco’s eyes, however faint, looked earnest.

Jean chewed on his lip and nodded. “I think we’re gonna have to.”

“It’s not far.”

“We can make it,” Jean agreed.

“Definitely.”

“Mmhmm.”

Marco tugged Jean closer, yanked his hood up over his head, and nuzzled the fabric with a sigh. “I love you,” he breathed.

Jean turned his face to the side and pressed a gentle kiss against Marco’s cheek. “I love you too,” he said, “so stop worrying about how cold you are.”

Marco huffed out a noise that made Jean chuckle, then squeezed his hand. “Whatever happens,” he said.

Jean glanced up at him, and really looked; he looked at the hollow eyes, at the drawn brows and the swell of his lips. “Whatever happens,” he agreed, the words warm and well-used on his lips.

And then they were moving forward.

Marco’s first steps onto the untouched snow were gingerly done, his head swinging around to make sure Jean was following his lead. It reminded him of a fawn double checking its mother was still behind it, and the thought made him smile despite the tense situation. Once he was sure, his strides became a little more purposeful. They remained quiet, keeping close to the perimeter should the need to vanish back into the trees appeared. They didn’t want to run, not unless they didn’t have to, but even a brisk walk would attract the clicks of the L.Ls. Any sound would trigger them. Jean couldn’t block out the frenzied sound of his breath on the wind, coiling up into the air like a smoke signal. He was getting tense again, his entire body on alert and ready to spring at the slightest sound. He never thought he would have to work at being prey. Now he was, he really wished he’d gone vegetarian when he was thirteen.

Their destination would eventually be the little town, skeletal on the horizon. It would have been a quaint little village once upon a time, but now it was either overran or full of hostile survivors. Nevertheless, that was where they were headed- by way of the vacant ranger’s hut at the edge of the clearing. It would tide them over until the final push to the town, and it would be nice to have a roof over their heads for a change. The closer they crept the less spectacular and rundown the building became, but so long as it kept out the monsters Jean wasn’t fussy about its décor.

They were almost a quarter of the way there when Jean caught a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye. He stopped. Tugged on Marco’s coat once. Made for his gun.

“Is it a Lost?” Marco asked.

Jean didn’t respond- his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was waiting for it to be over. He was waiting for a body to come galloping at them, grey with rot and no other urge but to rip and tear muscle from bone. He was waiting for them to _fail_.

“Jean?” Marco prompted.

He shook himself. “I’m… I’m not sure,” he said, barely managing to keep his stammer in check. “C-can you check?”

Then, everything happened quickly. Two shadows broke cover a few feet away from them, sprinting like hunted rabbits from the undergrowth and making a hell of a racket as they went. The relief that washed over Jean when he realised they were human shattered when the second conclusion hit him cold.

These people were pumping their arms and dropping their packs to lighten their burdens. They were scrambling, bumping into one another, shouting wordless warnings at their fellow survivors from across the clearing.

Shit.

No one ran like that unless they were being _chased_.

“MARCO, RUN!” he shouted, and that was it. Marco bolted, he followed close behind, and the world became a blur.

Jean hadn’t been the best sportsman at school. Every attempt to get him running for a team or cross country event was met with eye rolls and half baked attempts. He had found out, however, that a flesh eating monster nipping at your heels did wonders for the motivation. Now, Jean had every intention of running until he collapsed.

He never tried to flatter himself and say that he was fast, but he was quick enough to keep ahead of the L.Ls. He refused to look over his shoulder to see where they were. He couldn’t afford to. He couldn’t let himself become a slave to his panic. If he saw them gaining, his breath would stutter and his legs would trip and that would be the end of it. But he wanted to look. He wanted to look so badly, just to gauge how much they had to spare…

“Don’t look back!” Marco shouted. Jean’s head snapped to attention. Marco hadn’t looked around. He’d just _known_.

There was a rising chorus of clicks that sounded too close for comfort, but he listened to Marco: he didn’t look back. Even when the clicks rounded to a screech that signalled that they had been tracked, he just kept running. There was nothing he knew, at that moment, except how to make his legs work like pistons and stop his heart from beating straight out of his chest.

He heard someone crash to the ground to his left with a shrill cry. He heard the familiar rhythm of the L.L’s pace as they dropped onto all fours and began to gallop, their clicking increasing still more in their excitement. He bit his lip. Kept on running. Couldn’t look back.

Then the screaming started.

Jean didn’t right his stumble in time.

He bit the ground like he’d jumped out of a speeding car, the blow winding him as he went down, and the accompanying screech he heard sounded triumphant. It also sounded _close._

“JEAN!” Marco turned with surprising grace, snow spraying up behind him as he came back, hand already thrust out for Jean to grab. Air returned to Jean’s lungs. He scrambled, kicking his legs in case any of the bastards thought of getting close, and made his mistake. He flipped himself around- and saw the blood.

There were three L.Ls, far gone beasts with matted hair and chunks missing from their once human bodies, and once Jean set eyes on them a hiss coiled from the nearest. This one had eyes, and though they were completely white Jean knew better than to underestimate them. A companion of his had mistaken their eyes for blindness before. That companion paid the price for his ignorance.

They were preoccupied, however- the blood was coming from within the huddle they’d made, the screams turning to a gurgling rattle that churned Jean’s stomach. Seemed like he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t fast enough. One L.L’s head came up with a slippery rope of intestine hanging from its jaws like a thick worm, and he felt the nausea rising to the surface. “Jean!” Marco shouted again, and this time it hit home.

Jean got to his feet, unable to take his eyes off of the creatures. The one who had hissed pulled away from the frenzy with a blood-stained maw and a leering, mocking grin of an expression. Was it the L.L from before? He couldn’t be sure. Probably not. This one had eyes. Jean’s gun was in front of him in an instant. There was no need; they wouldn’t attack if they had food. He would later defend himself by saying that the one who looked at him was threatening, but it wasn’t true. The creature just peered at him like a critic in a museum, head turning this way and that like it was trying to define what he was in its meat-addled mind. The gun began to shake in his grasp, even as he levelled it at the L.L’s head. It was no use; he couldn’t save whoever was in the centre of the L.Ls. It was no use- but he still wanted to try.

“Let’s go, now!” Marco called.

He took a step back, but didn’t lower his gun. If he shot now, he could kill it.

“Jean, now!”

Jean gritted his teeth. He had to go. Every part of him was screaming to leave, but there was a slither that held him back. He wanted to shoot every single one of the fuckers’ heads so they exploded in a rain of blood and brain matter. He wanted to see them _suffer_ , like their victim had suffered.

But the bullet that lodged itself in the hissing L.L’s brain didn’t come from him.

The smoke rose from the shotgun of the other escapee, eyes narrowed as they glared down the barrel. They watched the creature fall to its knees without so much as a whimper, and reloaded. Whoever it was had covered their face; Jean saw nothing but a short stature and a pair of bright eyes before the survivor fired again. It missed. This time, it got the attention of the feasting L.Ls. With a snarl, the first moved away from the hill and screeched, the spittle flying from its mouth pink with blood. The moon was doing a horrifically good job at lighting the clearing for them all.

“Look what you did!” Jean heard Marco shout.

Jean felt himself getting hauled backwards with a strength that almost sent him flying into the snow again, and the gun was wrestled from his hand. “Marco, what-?” He stopped when he saw the way Marco was glaring at Shotgun.

Shotgun didn’t seem to care. The weapon was reloaded, the spent rounds falling into the snow, and they fired again. This one hit its mark on the second L.L: it blew a hole in the thing’s stomach, sending its stomach contents spilling out onto the snow to accompany its victim’s. Jean wriggled free of Marco’s grip and marched towards the survivor. “Stop fucking shooting that thing, it’ll just attract more of the- woah, okay, okay!” The shotgun was levelled at him now, the muzzle prodding rather rudely into his stomach- the same spot, coincidentally, that he saw the L.L clutch as it tripped over its own entrails. He blanched. “Sh-shouldn’t you be pointing that at the zombies?” he asked.

The eyes narrowed again. “Why don’t you mind your own fuckin’ business, asshole?”

Jean glanced to the L.L. It had sunk to its knees, the sound it made similar to a dying cat as its innards lay behind it in a macabre trail. Its companion was paying a lot of interest to that trail, even as the thing fell on its face with a groan. Hopefully the fuckers would start to eat each other, and give them a clean getaway. “I was trying to mind it, but your friend-”

“Don’t talk to me about her.” The gun was now tucked under his chin. “You are not allowed to talk about her, got it?”

“C-crystal,” he stammered.

“Get your gun off him.”

Shotgun’s head snapped around to Marco. He was still glaring, though Jean could tell he was on high alert from the L.Ls dragging their feet on the approach.

Shotgun’s eyes widened. “You,” they breathed. “You’re one of-”

“I said get your gun off him,” Marco said, “or you will regret it.”

Shotgun hesitated. “I don’t see you with a gun.”

Marco’s lip curled. “Who said anything about needing a gun?”

There was a pause. Shotgun lowered the gun- just as the third L.L. attacked. With a crescendo of shrieks and clicks the pair went down. The L.L’s hands gouged out chunks of earth as it struggled for a foothold, the tongue darting out of its mouth black with decay. Shotgun jammed their weapon against the bottom of the creature’s jaw to stop the mouth from gaping open and drove their elbow down into the palm of the nearest hand. The L.L. screeched, nothing but rage in its voice, and all Jean could do was watch. He staggered backwards into Marco and grabbed for the hand he knew was there. He wet his lips when he found it. “Do something,” he said faintly.

He felt Marco’s body hesitate. “But-”

“Please. Do something.”

Another screech.

This one was coming from close by in the forest. The L.L wrestling with Shotgun jerked its head up, nostrils flaring in a way so bestial it was hard to imagine that it was once a human being. Before it even had the chance to croak, something burst out of the trees directly to Shotgun’s left and barrelled into it with the force of a speeding car, sending it sprawling away from its intended victim with a howl. The dark made it hard to decipher, but it sounded big. The whatever-it-was let out a roar that almost stopped Jean’s heart beating, and before the L.L could even get to its feet it was being picked up and thrown against the bone-white trunks. There was a sickening crack, another pitiful howl, and then they were running.

Marco was pulling him along, their hands a strong connection and his strength making it easy to pick Jean up off the ground should he have stumbled again. Jean was too wired for that now, his mind still on what had happened to the poor sucker who had slowed down, and he was at a flat out sprint. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears, his muscles screaming at him, his lungs aching for more air- but Marco told him to run. He was going to run, and run fast. Nothing was enough to blot out the noises of the creatures behind him screaming at each other, however, and the final shriek was something he would have preferred not to have heard. Despite it all he tried to look back, but Marco tugged his arm more insistently. “We’re almost there!” he shouted.

And so they were. The hut was a few feet away, a beacon they ran towards like moths. Jean felt his chest hiccup with a sob of relief. They were close. They were so close. They were going to make it. The squeeze to his hand signalled that Marco had heard him, and it spurred him on.

He used the last shred of energy to overtake Marco, pry open the old oak door and fling himself to safety. He wasn’t strong enough to yank Marco inside, but he didn’t need to- Marco was already there, shouting something from the door as Jean collapsed in a heap in the centre of the room. Everything hurt. His muscles were sore and quaking, and he tasted metal in his mouth. He shut his eyes and wheezed out Marco’s name. In the din of roaring blood and drumming pulse, he didn’t hear Marco slam the door shut and slide back the bolt, nor did he notice that there was one extra thump of a body hitting the floor. Only when he cracked an eye open, still gasping for breath, did he see Shotgun curled in a ball opposite him, trying to fight air into their lungs. He felt Marco beside him, his cold body a blessed relief from the sweat pouring down his back. He pressed in tight to the curve of Marco’s body and closed the eye again.

They were okay. One more night, they had managed to survive. Jean always got giddy in these moments, the sheer relief of being alive one more night, triumphing over the monsters clamouring for flesh and brains and god knows what else, but his energy was well and truly spent. He knew it would come later. For now, he simply folded into Marco’s one-armed embrace and sighed against his neck. Perhaps it would warm him up. He looked over to see Shotgun watching them- from right underneath the window.

“Git awa’ fro’ th’winda’.”

Shotgun shifted. “What?”

“Get away from the window,” he croaked.

“Wh-”

“D’you want those fucking things to get you?”

Shotgun moved. Their namesake had been thrown down in the centre of the room, and Jean eyed it with a wary sort of respect. He knew how good shotguns were for bringing down animals; one shot and it was over, the rounds so explosive they could kill on impact. If he had to pick the cliché L.L killing weapon, it would be the shotgun. He could sense that Marco was nervous at the sight of it; he reached out a shaking leg and kicked it away from them for good measure, but Marco didn’t relax. Jean nuzzled into his neck, the warm question lingering in the breath he blew against the skin. “You okay?” he asked eventually.

Marco took too long to reply. “Fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“She killed them.”

Jean blinked and focused his attention on their new companion. “She?” he repeated, as if to clarify.

Shotgun nodded and pulled down the fabric shielding her face from view. “She,” she said. She looked as though she could have once been a model, or one of the art students Jean used to see around his neighbourhood growing up; the kind who were as beautiful as their creations and lived in the rickety areas of town for the sake of bohemia. The aesthetic had long since died- after all, who needed artists in the midst of an outbreak?- but at least this one knew how to handle a gun. She was smaller than Jean had even imagined, petite and pixie-like in the way her face, angelic as it was, tapered down to sharp edges. Her hair might have been blonde once, but it was now matted with blood and dirt and rain and plucked into a rough ponytail. Jean doubted he looked much better, but that wasn’t the point. “And _she_ is wondering what the hell you’re doing walking around with one of those?”

Jean bristled. Not so angelic by nature, apparently. “His name is Marco,” he hissed.

“Is that the name he was born with, or the name you gave to him?” she asked.

“It’s his fucking name is all you need to worry about.”

Shotgun put her hands up in a placating gesture. “I was just asking.”

“Well just don’t.” Jean turned back to Marco and saw that his eyes were downcast. “Marco, you’re not ‘one of those’, alright?”

Marco nodded slowly, but when he levelled his gaze there was a frown on his face. “She’s dead out there,” he said.

Jean sighed. “Yeah, she is,” he said, “but we didn’t have a choice. We couldn’t get her away from those things in time, there was nothing we could-”

“I didn’t mean the girl, Jean.” When Jean raised a brow, a gesture to prompt him on, Marco mumbled, “I meant… the woman. The one who was watching you. She’s dead out there on the snow, she didn’t even attack you.”

“She is not a woman, Marco,” Jean stressed.

“Yeah,” the girl chipped in. “She is an ‘it’. It is an L.L, a Living Lost, remember?”

Marco shook his head. “She wasn’t attacking you, Jean,” he repeated. “She was just…standing there. She stopped eating. She looked like she was _remembering_ …”

Jean blanched. That was ridiculous. L.Ls didn’t have memories- they were gone the second they came back, wiped away like a slate. They couldn’t remember what it was like to be human. “Marco, you’re making no sense,” he said after a while. “Stop talking about this stuff.”

“I’m sorry. Does it make you uncomfortable?” There was an edge to Marco’s tone Jean didn’t appreciate. “Thinking of them as human is hard, isn’t it, considering I’m one of them?”

“Marco, you’re not one of the-”

“Yes I am.” He moved away, Jean whining at the sudden space he had to fall into. “I am one of them, Jean, no matter how much you try to sugarcoat it.”

“You’re different, you know you are.” Jean’s lids were heavy. He wanted to fight against Marco’s words, but every swing felt like it was missing the mark. He could see the way his replies were bouncing off Marco’s shoulders. He just wanted to sleep. “You’re a Living Impaired. You’re not like them.”

“Well I’m not like you, either.”

Jean couldn’t argue with that, and Marco knew it. He just wheezed out a sigh of defeat and let his eyes land on the girl. “Who’s asking about him anyway?”

Her eyes flashed as they caught the naked bulb on the ceiling. “If we want to get through the pleasantries, I guess I’ll start first. My name is Historia. What’s yours?”

Jean snorted. “The Sundance Kid.”

The little wrinkle to the girl’s nose would have been adorable if her eyes didn’t promise murder. “Don’t be cute. Where are you heading?”

“We don’t really have a plan. Just keep moving.”

“That’s it?”

He popped his lips. “Yerp. Got enough provisions to last us another month or so, then I guess we’ll have to start hunting deer.” He saw the way Marco stared at him, but tried to ignore it. He saw the judgement in his expression. Once a veggie, always a veggie- even if he didn’t eat anymore.

He broke his talk to watch Marco busying himself about the hut, turning over the empty tins and pots left behind by a soul in a hurry, and let himself marvel at Marco’s hands. They were the one part of him he had never gotten used to; Marco had worked on his uncle’s farm every summer, and though the work was gruelling his hands never lost their softness. They were never rough or blistered or broken by the labour, and he’d used to joke that he had to be moisturising. He wouldn’t have teased him that much if it were true. And here they still were, cold and lacking the circulation, but still so careful and gentle as they searched the place for anything of value. Marco worked with a furrowed brow, possibly a faded grimace left over from Jean’s comment about the deer, but it was a soft sort of aura he gave off, and Jean could even see Historia’s prickly exterior unfurling from its influence.

“There are no deer in these woods,” she said, keeping an eye on Marco as he moved too. Jean wondered if she was trying to pick out faults in his gait or stride, and the thought sent him on the defensive again. “Did you miss the massacre back at the bend in the river? That settlement?”

“The quarantine zone?” Jean blinked. “I didn’t know there even was a massacre.”

Historia’s eyes fell. “Yes. Someone who had the venom in their bloodstream wasn’t picked up in time. They turned, the virus spread…soon everyone was either an L.L or lying in pieces in the street.”

Jean bit his lip. They had been at the quarantine zone a week ago. He’d known people there: nurses, researchers, civilians… had all of them died?

Historia apparently knew better than to go into more detail. Maybe she’d seen the way his face had fallen, or maybe she was a genuine human being who knew it wasn’t best to talk about tragedies in such a trying time. Either way, she focused her attention back on Marco. “So, you’re an L.I?” she inquired. Jean was glad she’d spoken at a normal pace- if she’d made it as slow as a turtle with asthma Jean would not have been held responsible for Marco’s actions.

“Yes.” Marco’s short answer suggested he was close to snapping regardless.

“Did you die before the outbreak, Marco? If that’s not too personal a question.”

“It’s a pretty personal question.” Marco hesitated. “But I did. I woke up a week later… and the world was this.”  He thrust a hand out to the window, though the movement was sluggish. He glared at his own limb for betraying him, and Jean felt a stab of sympathy. He’d been quick enough today. His body was telling him that enough was enough. “I woke up,” Marco repeated, his words meandering into one another, “and Jean was waiting for me.”

“I’ll always be waiting for you,” Jean added.

Marco nodded. “Right.”

That seemed enough for Historia. She went quiet, ducking her head to her chest and toying with the ring on her finger. Jean decided that the pleasantries were over, and his limbs were starting to feel leaden with misuse. He got to his feet, wincing as he did so, and fished out the little camp stove from his bag. “You got a light?” he asked.

Dinner was the usual. Tinned beans and canned pears for dessert wasn’t exactly a meal fit for a king, but as Jean prodded the beans around the little stove and listened to the clicks beyond the four walls of the hut, he knew it was better than nothing. Marco was standing guard outside, a choice he’d made himself despite Jean’s protests, and every now and again Jean would hear a breath or a shuffle of his foot and reach for his gun. But then he would remember, and let it lie.

Historia remained silent, musing on that damn ring of hers, and when Jean returned from outside to check on Marco she had moved a little closer to the firelight. It was only a small flame, naked and blue with the limited gas Jean had on him, but it was enough to send a burst of warmth to anyone close enough to it. He watched her for a moment from the door, arms tight against his chest. She could be anyone- just another survivor like him, out in the wilderness. There was something else though, something gnawing at her bones that he couldn’t see clear enough. She had mystery about her. Jean’s nose wrinkled. He didn’t do mysteries. He cleared his throat, and she jumped. “Better be keeping a close eye on those beans. If they spoil I’ll be blaming you.”

She looked sheepish as he passed her. “Didn’t know beans could spoil,” she muttered.

“You’ve been eating better than me, then.” Jean let his eyes flash up. “You dropped your stuff.”

Historia shrugged. “I’ll get it back.”

“You’re planning on going back to get it?”

Her eyes met his. “I never said that.”

Jean drew back. “You know, we told you where we were going, and that was nowhere in particular. You didn’t tell us about you. Decided to keep that vague, huh?”

Historia scoffed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You seem as dull as your bodyguard. Maybe he’s the more talkative type-”

“Shut up.” His words came out sharp, so much so that it jerked Historia’s head up to stare at him. “He’s outside now. I know you’ve got stuff you want to say to him, but I’m telling you now you won’t be talking to him. Whatever you have to say, you say to _me_. He is an L.I, and he’s not fucking stupid. Don’t you dare treat him like he is, or you’ll have me to answer to. Now, you’re going to answer my question.” He levelled his gaze with hers. “Who are you, really?” He noticed the way her eyes fell to the shotgun just out of reach, and he raised a brow. “Really?” he prompted.

She flushed with shame at being discovered, and let her eyes fall back to the pot of beans. “My name is Historia, as I’ve said before, but you would probably know me better as Christa, or Christa Lenz.”

Jean blinked. He did know that name. He’d heard it whispered in huddles of people in the quarantine zones, on the lips of god-fearing survivors he and Marco had encountered on their journey south- and most often in the blighted towns, on the dying or sick. “Well, I’m honoured to be sharing my beans with the poster girl of the Vaccine movement, but forgive me for not prostrating myself at your feet.”

Historia didn’t look impressed. “I’m travelling West. We’ve got another quarantine outpost there, smaller and more developed. We have a lab there. We have facilities to administer drugs. Pain relief. Morphine. You know the kind.”

“Do you have the miracle vaccine everyone talks about?”

By the way Historia’s gaze dropped down, he guessed not. He huffed, and looked to the window. He could hear the clicking growing closer, but Marco’s returning call was fending them off. Marco had tried to run through with him what the clicking meant, but it wasn’t exactly a vocabulary; it was a method of location. His clicking, however, scrambled the L.L’s signals and took them back jagged and broken. It gave Jean the invisibility he needed, and it made Marco’s new found skills good for something. A fond expression might have appeared on his face at the sight of Marco’s sturdy shoulder in the warped glass of the window. The moonlight was dappling his body in silver so that he looked like some sort of ethereal creature stood out on the porch. Jean thought that was _precisely_ what he was.

“You’re close to him, aren’t you?”

He was brought back into the room by Historia’s question. He poked the beans around in the pan and replied, “He’s my boyfriend. Of course I’m close to him.” Historia said nothing. She didn’t need to. The glance she cast in the direction of the outdoors was one of heavy scepticism, and it made Jean’s blood boil. He knew what she was thinking. He’d had it before. “It doesn’t change anything,” he said. “Marco being an L.I, I mean.”

Historia raised a brow. “So you two still…?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Not really my area.”

“Prefer girls?”

He looked back to the beans. Gave them a taste test. Grimaced. Still too cold. “Prefer nothing, actually, if you must pry into my private life.” He gave the beans a more violent stir, and glared up at her. “Don’t change the subject. You haven’t found a vaccine?”

Historia’s cheeks flushed again. The way her ears flared scarlet was almost endearing. There was a reason the hot blooded males of the quarantine zones liked her, after all. “We’re getting close.”

Jean snorted. “You were ‘getting close’ six months ago.”

“We really are this time. We just… need a test subject.” Historia paused. “Which is why I need to ask you a question.”

Jean raised a brow. He didn’t like questions. “Shoot,” he said, though his voice said otherwise.

Historia didn’t seem to want to voice the question either. She chewed on her bottom lip until it blushed pink, and let the silence hang on the air like a cobweb for a beat longer before she opened her mouth. “Jean, as I’m sure you’re aware, Living Impaired are very rare nowadays-”

Jean went cold. “No,” he said. He stood up from his post and strode to the window.

“You didn’t even hear the proposal yet.”

“I don’t need to hear it. The answer is no.”  

“Jean, it could help. We know that L.I. saliva is different from L.L’s. It doesn’t have the same antibodies, the same bacteria, because it doesn’t turn people. It doesn’t kill them either, so maybe it’s some kind of anti-venom?”

Jean had heard the stories before. People with crackpot ideas preaching to the masses about the miracle of all miracles, the ‘This One Really Works Folks’ kind of tonics and potions that dwarfed a land filled with panic and paranoia. L.Is became the prime ingredient for many of the so-called cures, and none were successful. “Marco isn’t going anywhere.”

“It could save-”

“It could kill him. Again.” Jean’s face was stony when he turned back to Historia. “There is no way in hell I’m going to let you take him. I lost him once. I couldn’t lose him again.”

“I understand, but-”

“No!” Jean had hauled her to her feet now, and with a yelp from Historia he slammed her against the nearest wall. He heard the breath knock out of her lungs, but she still managed to land a hefty kick near his groin. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand!” He shifted close to her face, fist curled in the fabric of her shirt. “I wasn’t there when he died, but I sure as shit sat by his hospital bed and prayed to every single fucking god up in the sky to spare him.” He shook her. “Do you get it? When the outbreak came, the first thing I did was go to the graveyard and sit there with a fucking hunting rifle on my lap _waiting_ for him. And I knew that if he did come out, I would have to shoot him. I would have to shoot my best friend, my rock, the one I love- can you imagine what I went through?” He gave her a little knock against the wall for good measure, and leaned in close. “But you know what? A part of me was _relieved._ Because even if I had to blow his fucking brains out, I’d get to see him again instead of the same old framed picture in my room. And how fucked up is that?”

“Jean?”

He froze. “M-Marco-” he said, halfway through a turn when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and a familiar nose buried its way into the shorter hair on his neck. It was like being hugged by an igloo, but Jean didn’t dare move. He let his grip on Historia’s shirt loosen and nuzzled any part of Marco’s neck or face he could reach given the angle. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten angry-”

“Did you really come for me first?” Marco’s voice was trembling, his arms crushing Jean to his chest with a ferocious sort of protection that made him choke. “A-all of the people you could have gone for… everyone _living_ … you came to see me?”

Historia stepped away from the embracing pair and grumbled something about ‘needing to check the beans’. Jean let her go; he focused on Marco, _his_ Marco, the Marco who was holding him like the world was ending and they were the last two on earth. Maybe one day, that would be the case, but Jean hoped not. He bit his lip. “Yeah. I came to see you. Always did say my priorities were screwy.” He got a chiding squeeze for his trouble, but he knew there was nothing playful about it. Marco’s fingers dug into his shirt and stayed there, lingering. Jean could even feel the beginnings of nails on his skin. He winced and reached up to play with some lank strands of hair falling in front of Marco’s face. “You’re an L.I,” he said, “but that doesn’t change how I feel. Don’t you know that?”

Marco shrugged. “Think I can be a burden sometimes.”

Jean’s heart sank at the very mention of it. “Don’t you ever say that,” he said, nudging his nose against Marco’s small, squat equivalent. “You’re the reason I’m fighting. I would have fallen down today and not gotten up again if you weren’t there to give me that reason.” Marco made a snuffling noise that Jean had come to know as a flustered one, and he smiled. “You’re not a burden,” he affirmed. “You’re Marco. Marco’s never a burden.”

“Your food’s ready.”

There was a pause before Marco pulled away and let Jean step towards the stove, and Jean could tell it was a moment for Marco to stop, to relish the feel of Jean against him and remember how important he was. But, as Jean sat down to the meal of pulpy beans and watered down tomatoes, he made sure to note the intrigued glances Historia cast Marco’s way.

+++

 Historia left in the afternoon.

Jean was certain that was the end of it; she left without so much as a farewell or word of thanks for the food. He just woke up and she was gone. The moment his eyes fell on the empty space where she had been before, relief began to set in. Jean didn’t do people. The more people in a group, the more likely that they would attract attention; the L.Ls picked people off like lions in the midst of wildebeest, and twice as messily. Historia would have slowed them down. Plus, she was the Vaccine Movement’s top showrunner- Jean would never hear the end of it if she got herself killed around him. People still talked, despite the apocalypse. Some parts of human nature never changed.

He struggled to sit up and raked a hand through his hair, yawning the same way he’d done in his little basement room at home. “Marco?” he called out. No answer. He frowned, and sat up straighter. “Marco?” he tried again. Only the silence of the hut greeted him. He wriggled out of his sleeping bag and was out the door in an instant.

It was snowing outside. The white specks floated down from the heavens and smoothed over the tracks of previous days- the old footprints from where they had run to the hut, the scrabbling marks in the earth where the L.L. had met its match with Historia, all were covered in a new blanket of snow for a fresh start. Still, he couldn’t see Marco. He spun on his heel to check the way they’d come, but there was nothing to suggest that someone had taken that path. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted Marco’s name, the sound bouncing off the trees. Nothing. Jean tried to stop himself from panicking, tried to calm the fear rising up like a tidal wave… _Historia._ His eyes snapped open. He’d been asleep when Historia left.

But L.Is didn’t sleep.

Something caught in his throat. His breath puffed out in large clouds as he charged out into the wilderness, calling and calling, and he was sure if there any animals left in the forest they would have fled in the wake of his frantic shouts and pleads. He ran through the forest, past the clearing, past the tree he’d slept in. He didn’t know where he was running to; he had no direction or purpose in the manic way he ran, not to mention he’d left everything back at the hut. But the panic had taken hold like a parasite, clawing its way into his aching chest and growing fat on his fear. Only when he realised he’d done a circuit of the forest and was heading back to the hut did he stop, fall to his knees and choke out gasping _sobs_ of Marco’s name.

Historia had gotten to him. She had tapped into his better nature, told him that he was benefitting the human race, that he would help to combat the outbreak. And Marco had gone, thinking that he was going to help people- that’s all he ever really wanted to do, after all- and hadn’t even woken him. Maybe he thought he would be back soon, just a little check up and he would return with a vaccine and a grinning Historia. But Jean knew the truth.

“He wouldn’t leave me,” he said aloud to the trees. “He just… he wouldn’t, he loves me.”

The mournful howl of the wind was the only noise he heard to counter his argument.

He sagged into the snow, trying to keep his inhibitions in check. Marco couldn’t leave him here. Couldn’t leave him like this. Marco didn’t get it. Marco hadn’t been conscious for the experiments Jean had seen other L.Is subjected to. Jean had been the one to see the hundreds of needles, the careless way the L.Is were shepherded into pens like livestock and stabbed with vaccine after vaccine. Jean still heard the screams in his nightmares. The thought of Marco being subjected to that, being in pain, screaming for him… it broke what little composure he had.

“Marco,” he said again, practically whispering it to the dirtied snow under his lips, when he heard a noise.

A clicking.

He spun around just in time to see the L.L. explode through the trees, its shrieks of glee ringing in his ears as it snatched for him. Thankfully, he used his lowered height to his advantage; he rolled onto his back and kicked hard into the L.L’s stomach, sending the creature crashing to the floor with a hiss a few feet away. By the time he’d scrambled to his feet the thing was on him again, screeching and grabbing and slashing, and Jean lost his balance. They fell to the ground together, the L.L. trying to bite at any part of Jean it could reach as he took its face in his hand and wrenched it away.

The L.L came back, jaws opening wide as it screeched in Jean’s face, and for a moment Jean froze. Its breath stank of rotting flesh, of putrefaction and poison, and as Jean stared into the gaping mouth and broken teeth, he woke up. He thrashed underneath it with a hoarse shout and delivered a swift kick to the thing’s groin. There was a flash of pain in his right arm before it reeled back and he got a better view of what exactly he was dealing with. The creature was once a businessman- Jean could tell by a shredded suit hanging from the dead flesh- and the sightless eyes that stared down at him were as white as the snow around them.

He drove his other fist into the L.L’s ribcage and rolled away, hoping against hope that it hadn’t called its friends to help, and as he backed away he thought he might have a window of opportunity to bolt. Running would mean that his back was exposed, but staying here…

Another noise ripped through the undergrowth.

A roar.

Jean remembered that roar.

He chose the bolt option, tripping over his feet as he started off. He could hear the winded L.L. snarling at his back, but he didn’t stop running. He’d been so stupid, he thought as he skidded around a patch of wilder looking trees. So stupid. He shouldn’t have gone out without his gun. He shouldn’t have left in a panic, looking for Marco. _Marco_ …

There was a crunch behind him, and as he turned to look something else knocked into him and took his feet out from underneath him. Jean gasped for the air that had been so unceremoniously knocked from him, and as they sprawled in the dirt he brought down his fist hard in the small of his attacker’s back. The yelp he heard, coupled with the fact that his fist hurt like hell, blew away the cloud of panic for a moment.

“M-Marco?!”

The face moved aside, and he could have broken all over again at the sight of Marco looking down at him. “I… told you… not to look back…” he said, teeth gritted through the pain of Jean’s punch.

Jean gulped. He brought his hands down around Marco’s neck and dragged him in close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into his neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He could still hear the sounds of a fight behind him, and this time he looked.

The roar had come from a human figure, tall and fine boned with a curled lip, and as the L.L. crouched to assess their threat, they turned to look at Jean. Jean saw the diluted expression, the drawn brows, the…

The faded eyes.

The L.I turned just as their opponent was getting ready to spring and jumped first, the silver slice of a blade just cutting through Jean’s vision before ribbons of blackened blood pooled from the creature’s legs. The hamstrung creature screamed in pain and collapsed, the blood staining the snow around it, and the L.I simply strode over, lifted their boot above the still-screaming head, and brought it smashing down. The screams were silenced. Jean winced as brain and skull fragment flew everywhere, and only opened his eyes again when he heard footsteps. They were slow, laboured steps, like the owner was trying to decide whether or not it really wanted to be there. Then they stopped. The L.I. had their head cocked, watching them.

“This is Ymir,” Marco said, as way of introduction. “They’re…”

“I know what they are.”

‘Ymir’ cocked their head to the opposite side, and leered at them. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” they said. Jean blanched. The corners of their mouth tugged up in a smirk, and they gave a perfect L.L. click. “Think your boy was the last one left, did you? How disappointing.”

“They’re trying to find Historia,” Marco explained. “They were following her and the guard- once the guard got killed, Ymir lost Historia’s imprint. They’ve been tracking her ever since. They’re the one that killed the L.Ls yesterday. They found the hut this morning, but… Historia was gone.”

“So… you were…” Jean’s mouth closed like a trap. Marco hadn’t gone with Historia. Ymir had come to him. They had gone out to search together- and found him, scrambling in the snow like a fawn. He groaned and covered his head. He’d made the wrong call. He’d gone out on the entirely wrong limb, and now…

“Jean…”

He lowered his arm. It stung. He grimaced. He knew.

“Y-you’re…”

Oh god, he knew, he didn’t have to say.

“You’re hurt.”

Jean glanced down. Cruel teeth marks had punctured both fabric and skin, and brought blood to the surface. He closed his eyes. _Shit._  

He thought he’d get angry. He thought he would shout and scream and kick anything within reach because it wasn’t fair- but he did none of those things. He just looked up at Marco, his eyes wide and tears threatening to burst his banks. Jean didn’t know L.Is could cry. “Oh god,” Marco was murmuring under his breath. “Oh god, oh god, oh g-god…”

Jean swallowed dryly. “M-Marco, we have a new plan,” he said.

“N-new plan?”

Jean shoved the rest of his jacket down to cover the bite from view, bile rising up in his throat as he got to his feet. He leant on Marco to steady his feet, and took the liberty of leaning in close enough to tuck his head underneath Marco’s chin. “We’re going to go with Ymir.”

“You are?”

“We are?”

“Yeah.” Jean wetted his lips. “W-we’re going to find Historia. A-and… we’re going to get a vaccine.” He tried to take a step, but the shock of the bite had his legs unsteady. When he toppled, Marco was ready to catch him.

“Jean…” he said, his voice broken. “P-please… you have to… I could…”

Jean gave him a fierce look. “You’re not going to do anything.” He creased his hands in Marco’s jacket and forced him to look at him. “Y-you’re going to get me there. You and Ymir. We’ll get there. We have to.”

Ymir snorted. “You got a week until you’re one of those things. The centre’s miles away- you won’t make it.”

Jean didn’t answer. He knew that.

Deep down, he knew Marco knew it too.

He took his hand with his own shaking one, and laced their fingers together. “W-whatever happens?” he asked, his voice nothing but a whisper.

Marco lowered his head, and Jean saw a few of his tears streak down his cheeks. “What…ev…er…ha…ppens…” he said.

Jean pressed a kiss to his cheek, and glanced to the sky. The sun was beginning to dip low, fattening to a ruby red in the endless expanse above them, and his instincts were telling him to move. He cast a glance to Marco, squeezed his hand, and set off through the forest.

Their hands never left each other’s, and the promises of ‘whatever happens’ echoed through the skeletal trees long after they were gone.

 


End file.
